I was running in Central Park at midnight, so fast that if anyone saw me, they would think someone was chasing me.  But I was alone. There wasn’t any other person in the park. Not even a car. My chest hurt and my ankles throbbed, but I ran and ran, past Belvedere fountain, past The Bandshell.  My father, who was away on a business trip, would have a heart attack if he knew what his fifteen-year-old daughter was doing that cold November night. Someone could murder me. Just a few years ago Son of Sam was shooting girls with long brown hair like me.  “Fifteen-year-old girl found dismembered in park bushes” could be the headline in The New York Post. Maybe my father would blame himself. But never Helen.

Helen, my new stepmother who had been my father’s secretary at his law office, was the reason I was running.  My mother said that Helen was the female version of Archie Bunker.  Six months after my parents divorced, my father married Helen. The two had been having an affair for years. My mother, who had a lot of money from alimony (“guilt payoff she called it) was relieved when the marriage was over. She had a great apartment in Greenwich Village and great boyfriends who were all musicians. I loved hanging out there and hearing all the gossip about Mick Jagger or David Bowie.  On weekend nights we would stay up all night singing along to her records, mainly The Beatles who were always her favorite. We would dance and dance until we fell on the floor, laughing. But one night, when my mother fell down, she couldn’t stand up. A few days later, she was diagnosed with brain cancer.

At first, when my mother died, Helen tried to be nice. But then she somehow got mixed up in this super religious group at her church and began to pester me. My stepmother would not stop plaguing me with questions. Why was my hair so short? Would it kill me to wear a dress? Helen would buy me magazines like Glamour and Mademoiselle to encourage me to look like the models from the front covers. “Why don’t you wear dresses?” she would ask. “Here is my new lipstick. Why don’t you try it?”

I threw out the magazines and makeup. I continue to cut my hair short at the local barber because I like the way I looked. Sometimes, I would slick my hair with water and wonder if anyone would think I was a boy. Hey, I would say to the mirror, are you the real me? My usual outfits were jeans and sweatshirts. Helen was right. I didn’t like to wear dresses. But I had no idea if I was gay or straight. I loved Debbie Harry, but I also loved David Bowie. Could you both love both men and women? This was never mentioned in 7^th grade Sex Education.

My father was taking more business trips with his new job. The night I fled to Central Park he was in London. Helen could control her drinking pretty much when my father was home, but boy, did she hit the Chardonnay when he was gone. She was drunk when she discovered my sketch of Deborah Harry. I had hidden it beneath my pillow but Helen, who thought all teenagers hid drugs in their bed, found it.

“What is this?” Helen demanded, staring at it as if it were a piece of garbage that fell out of the trash. This was almost eleven-thirty.  Helen liked to watch old films until the early morning when my dad was away.  I could hear from her slurred words that she was drunk.

“A project for my art class,” I answered.

“Whoever she is, she’s a whore.”

I did draw Debbie in a very skimpy dress with her nipples peeking out, but she wasn’t a whore. She was so beautiful to me that she could be holy.

“You shouldn’t be drawing sluts,” Helen said, swaying in front of my bed. Then she picked up my sketch and I went a little crazy.

“Put that down now!” I yelled at her.

“How dare you use that tone of voice! What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you,” I screamed, and suddenly I was grabbing the sketch from her. The paper ripped in half. Helen’s hand raised to slapped me. That’s when I grabbed my sneakers and sweatshirt and ran the hell out of the bedroom. 

“Good! Don’t come back freak!” Helen yelled from my room as I slammed the front door.

My gym teacher had wanted me to try out for the track team, but I didn’t want to do something that I loved to turn into competition. When I ran, I was free. My head would be clear and wouldn’t have to think about that camp.   

Three months ago, I overheard a conversation between Helen and my father. Helen said that I should be sent to a “special” camp this summer that would help me with my “issues.” I felt so sick that I almost vomited in the bathroom.

My father needed to know about Larry. Larry was a boy in the class above me who was sent to one of these camps last summer.  But my father was never alone. Helen guarded him with a vehemence that stunned me. But would he understand? Poor Larry had his legs broken the first week when he went to that camp, and then when he returned home, he tried to jump off his parents’ roof. My father would probably say he felt sorry for Larry, but he was obviously a kid with problems. That’s what our teachers said at class assembly when Larry didn’t return to school. I wish I knew what happened to Larry, who had been so slender and elegant and sweet. He wanted to be a ballet dancer, but his parents wanted him to play football.

I had run at Central Park at dusk but never at night. Running at night was so different. Central Park was a web of tree branches across the December black sky. The moon was full and bright, but I couldn’t find many stars. Two men in down jackets walked in front of me and then quickly disappeared into a bush. They looked more frightened of me than I than I was of them.  A cramp was beginning to set into my right leg. I knew, because of the two men, that I was probably near The Rambles.  My right ankle throbbed. I began to limp and decided to walk. A large bird suddenly flew above my head, and I ducked. Could there be bats in Central Park? I began to feel very scared and lost. I was also shivering from the cold. Why hadn’t I taken my fleece jacket?  

I walked down a path for ten minutes toward Central Park West. With great relief, I recognized a famous building. The Dakota. John Lennon had been shot there two years ago. My mother dragged me out of bed that night, and we took a taxi to stand vigil at 72^nd street.  I was still wearing pajamas. Everyone was sobbing and singing “Give Peace a Chance.” At three in the morning my mother found a diner and that was the first time I ever tasted coffee. Everyone in the diner, including the waitress, was clutching napkins, and crying. I had never felt so in touch with strangers before. Here we were, in New York City, and a woman I had never met before was giving me a starched handkerchief from her leather bag to wipe my eyes.  John Lennon was dead, but his memory that night was celebrated by so many, young and old.

When my mother was in the hospital, she listened to Beatles records so much that the nurses complained. They were not interested in my mother’s love of John Lennon.

“But his music can save her,” I had told them.

One nurse looked at the other one and I could see on the expression on their faces that nothing could save my mother now.

I sat on a wood bench staring at the majestic building that John Lennon had once lived. Ahead of me I could see a light shining from the second-floor apartment. Wasn’t that where Yoko One still lived?

Suddenly, I felt a movement behind me.

“Should you be out so late alone?”

I stood up so quickly that my head spun. Behind me was a tall, black bearded man wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He was staring at me intently and his hands were thrust in his jacket pockets. It was hard to tell his age in the dark, but I guessed he was a little younger than my father. So here he was, the man who would probably kill me. I had no defense. I used to wear a whistle when I ran, but right now a whistle could not save me. If I screamed, no one would hear.    

“It’s not so late,” I said. My teeth were beginning to chatter and my heart pounded so loudly that I wondered if the man could hear.

“It’s not safe to be in Central Park at night. Particularly for someone your age.” The man stood next to a lamppost, very still, almost like a statue. His voice was gruff and low. He took a step forward. Something glittered from his sleeve. A knife?

A wind blew through the trees. the leaves making sudden sinister shapes like twisted arms. I couldn’t really run because of my busted ankle. But the man would probably be faster.

“Why are you here?” the man asked, taking a step forward. It would be easy to try to hit or punch him, but my arms felt paralyzed.

“Here?” I asked. “You mean in the park?

“No, I mean in Strawberry Fields. This is a memorial. For John Lennon.”

I saw in the darkness the mosaic with the inscription Imagine that was a homage for Lennon. This had always been my mother’s favorite place.

The man took out his right hand from his pocket. I flinched, expecting a weapon.  But it was not a knife but just a silver watch that caught the light from the moon.

“I like to come late at night. During the day there are too many people,” the man told me.

“My mother loved this place too,” I said. Maybe mentioning my mother would protect me. “Why do you come here?”

“I was one of the surgeons who operated on Lennon after he was shot.”

I tried to imagine him in doctor’s scrubs, but it was difficult. “What happened?” My curiosity had taken over my fear.  Also, seeing a watch and not a knife made me feel better.

“Our team of doctors tried so hard, but it was hopeless. Too many bullet wounds. I was exhausted. My hand was shaking when I had to fill out the form for information about the time of his death. And just when I finished writing the details, just when all the paperwork was finished….”

He stopped and shook his head. The park suddenly seemed completely silent. No birds, no distant sound of cars, not even the wind. I felt very cold. The man was shivering too. His face looked so pale and his eyes so wide, as if he was seeing the scene he was describing. Maybe he would always still be there.

“In My Life was playing on the nurse’s radio station,” the man told me. “No one else except our medical team knew that Lennon had died.  I listened to that song and then excused myself and went into my office. I don’t know how long I sat there but I realized it was noon and my wife probably didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t save Lennon. No one could. I have hard time since then. That’s why I come here. He pointed to the Imagine mosaic. “People come and take away the dying flowers and replace them with fresh ones. You’ll never see a crumpled flower here. I think John would have liked that.”

John Lennon’s surgeon suddenly covered his face with his palms. “I hope I didn’t upset you,” the man said in a muffled voice.

“No. That was nice what you said about the flowers never dying. My Mom would have liked hearing that too.”

I decided not to tell him that my mother died on the first anniversary of John Lennon’s death. A year later, I tried to die too. Living with Helen and my father’s indifference was too much. I swallowed a. handful of aspirin and crouched by the bathtub, staring at the ugly purple shag rug my stepmother had just bought. Was that enough pills to die? Then I remembered my mother telling me that John Lennon had also tried to kill himself. Where would the world be now without him?  I stuck a finger down my throat, vomited, and then made myself drink four glasses of water.

“My name is Michael, by the way,” the man said. His hands no longer covered his face and were now deeply embedded in his leather jacket pockets.  He was standing straighter, and his voice was steady again. Whatever shadow that had engulfed him had now passed. “You remind me of my youngest daughter. Please go home now. I won’t be able to sleep knowing you’re alone here in the park.”

I glanced again at the second-floor windows of The Dakota. The light, which had once been faint, now seemed stronger, even golden.  

“Michael” I said, pointing to the building. “Do you think they see us? Yoko and her sons?”            

The man nodded and briefly smiled. “All the time. Maybe they’re watching us now.”

I lifted my hand and waved, hoping for some sort of response. But no one approached the window. When I turned around, Michael was gone. Maybe he had vanished for a reason. Or perhaps he hadn’t really existed.  Did I just imagine the whole scene?  My whole body ached with a sudden sadness. For Michael. For John Lennon. For my mother. And Larry, the boy with the broken legs.

In my pocket was a twenty-dollar bill. I didn’t remember having that money before. Did Michael give it to me, and I didn’t notice? I walked to Central Park West and hailed a taxi. My stepmother would still be passed out when I returned. No one would even know I had left. In three years, when I was eighteen, I could leave home.  My friend Lily who also was in love with Debbie Harry had gone to a boarding school in Vermont. She said the kids were more accepting of gay students.  Maybe I could convince my father to send me there instead of that horrible camp.  He and Helen would probably like a break from me. I would miss Central Park, but I could run anywhere.

– Penny Jackson

Author’s Note: This story was inspired by a real encounter with John’s Lennon surgeon in Central Park.